


Cardinal Spoils

by verovex



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: A Mostly Established Relationship, Batman is Somewhere, Ed Creeps Around in Vents like a Pro, Ed’s Version of Being Romantic, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, Ivy is Always Their Biggest Fan, M/M, S4 Ivy & Os Never Turned Sour, The Iceberg Lounge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-06 21:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12826344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verovex/pseuds/verovex
Summary: Ed attempts to reconcile the only way he knows how, by showering Oswald with gifts.





	Cardinal Spoils

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely inspired by _Joker’s Asylum: The Riddler_ , except Ed doesn’t go apeshit and kill anyone. This was supposed to _maybe_ be 1k in length, then it exploded, and I’m still not sure what happened, but enjoy?

It started with a book.

On one peculiar Friday evening, a seventies edition of ‘ _The Book Of Five Rings_ ’ had shown up, gift-wrapped, on Oswald’s desk at the Iceberg Lounge.

Never mind that Oswald didn’t know when the ‘ _gifter_ ’ could’ve possibly snuck in to leave it and that no one had seen them, or stopped them. Never mind that he’d been looking for this edition for quite some time, and it would’ve been a difficult find. Never mind that it had been wrapped to a professional standard, elegant purple paper contoured the book’s edges, with a red ribbon hugging around the centre, and a black bow to top it off.

He hadn’t wanted to unravel it. He found where the edges of the wrapping paper met, undressing it delicately along the edge, carefully peeling the tape back. Then once the book was exposed, he folded up the wrapping paper, pulled back the bottom left drawer at his desk, and hid it and the book away.

No note. No card.

Nothing deliberately left behind to indicate who it was from.

Didn’t know the _why_ , or the _how_ , but Oswald had already figured out the _who_.

He’d need to dispatch Mr Penn to fire the underlings that couldn’t follow simple instructions of not allowing a beanpole of a man clad in a sequinned green suit into his establishment.

The following Friday another item showed up in his office, more specifically on his chair—his throne.

He wasn’t entirely certain what to do with it, wasn’t sure what a large plush owl dressed in a suit was meant to signify other than their temporary-held-truce from the Court of Owls days.

He’d been thankful when Ivy blithely took ownership of the gift, asking him several times who it had been from, Oswald too overwhelmed with confusion to even try to answer.

“Was it from _that_ guy?” She asked when he seemed too in the black to answer, snapping her fingers in front of his eyes to draw his attention towards her. His brows knitted, not immediately recollecting who she meant until his gaze softened in remembrance.

“If only,” Oswald replied, with a grimace. Ivy had misconstrued his allegiance with an associate for something more intimate, which to most onlookers would’ve been easy to mistake. Tommy Elliot—Doctor Thomas Elliot—an up-and-coming popular, trust-funded, neurosurgeon that was making waves from the top-down in Gotham.

Much too young for Oswald’s tastes (not that he was getting _old_ , maybe just more _refined,_ or perhaps better left said that Oswald only had  _one_ taste), but the doctor had offered his services to the underworld, for a price, and Oswald was inclined to accept. It was an investment, an added asset to his list of on-call personnel. After all, Doctor Thompkins needed a break once in awhile.

The agreement was sealed with an adieu, in the form of the rather attractive man pulling Oswald into a one-sided embrace, and then planting sloppy kisses on either side of Oswald’s cheeks, much too close to the edges of his lips.

Oswald had been too flustered to notice Ivy’s knock-less entry into the office, the clearing of her throat dislodging him from his temporary stupor.

The doctor took his leave, stopping next to Ivy to introduce himself, pulling her hand to press his lips to the top of her skin. Oswald supposed the man was merely extremely affectionate.

Ivy snapped her hand back, marking clear contempt for his archaic choice of a greeting. Oswald failed to cover his amused smile at her response. Anyone who _knew_ Ivy knew not to even _attempt_ to touch her.

* * *

The next Friday ( _thankfully_ ) nothing showed up at the Lounge, _but_ , the Mansion was an entirely different story.

He found a crystalline penguin perched on the fireplace mantle.

Never mind that it was beautifully handcrafted, someone’s painstaking efforts should have left Oswald titillated, but he was just… _done_ in by the sight of it.

Oswald stared at it, figuring it to symbolize a form of mockery, then had Zsasz scour the home to make sure the Riddler wasn’t hiding in the grand manor’s shadows. Once he’d been told there was no one in the house, Oswald gave a wayward glance towards the decorative addition, and promptly retired to his bedroom.

Three Fridays follow after that with no deliveries at all, and Oswald was minutely relieved but would be lying if he didn’t admit to feeling like he might have _missed_ something from the last gift. He had Firefly bring it with them to the Lounge, not wanting to directly touch it, feeling like that made him more connected to this than he wanted to be.

During Ivy’s visit that evening, she immediately perked up about something from the past to do with the Wayne boy, the Catgirl, the Butler, and the detectives shining a light through the item to view a hidden map. Sure enough, when Ivy brought a light through its base, a riddle popped up against his curtains—in a blend of a map of Gotham and a constellation of stars— _Corona Borealis_ , if memory served.

The brightest points being the Iceberg Lounge, the Van Dahl residence, the apartment on Grundy, Gotham Cemetery, Cherry’s, and Arkham Asylum, as well as a time and date stamped in the rightmost corner, for twenty-six hours and thirty-two minutes in the past.

A clear invitation to a trip down memory lane.

“You’re too late!” Ivy wrinkled her nose, genuinely frustrated that Oswald didn’t care more for this; trying to memorize all the coordinates before he took the crystal off the side table, placing it in its permanent home at the bottom of his desk drawer with an unconcerned clunk.

“Isn’t that always the case?” Oswald shrugged, falling back into his chair, chin sliding into his palm with the prop of his elbow against the armrest. “Don’t you have Sirens business to get back to?”

Ivy looked crushed, towards the part of Oswald that carried a detached disposition with anyone who tried to break through, and the other half for whoever had been leaving the gifts to such an unappreciative recipient. She wanted to argue with him, tell him it had been years of this aloof attitude, wasn’t it time to let go and let someone in? Clearly, he had an admirer.

“Os—“ Ivy started, only to be interrupted by Mr Penn shuffling in, opening his mouth to speak before noticing the other occupant, and promptly stuttering through a _hello_ in Ivy’s direction.

“Perfect timing, Mr Penn.” Oswald pushed back against his chair, appeased by being able to evade Ivy’s line of questioning, making a beeline to vacate the office.

Ivy glowered, heaving a sigh after watching Oswald scurry out without even a proper farewell.

“Well, if you’re not going to see this through,” she declared to an empty room, taking the silence as irrefutable authorization to saunter on the tips of her toes to the desk, retrieving the penguin to jot down the remaining locations.

* * *

Oswald was growing paranoid.

It had started up again, even after his blatant avoidance of meeting with Ed—not that it would’ve mattered, the pieces hadn’t aligned in time. It was a heavy reminder of that being their staple.

Still, the pattern of gifts began again, always delivered on Fridays, whenever Oswald was conveniently pulled away at an ever-changing, unscheduled time during the evening, only to return to his office to find another enigma to decipher.

Each time, Oswald racked his brain to figure out why it never felt like Ed had been there, yet somehow he had been. He bored over hours of security footage, incapable of finding any trace of him, realizing that he would have to stop firing employees based on the premise of a ghost.

He started coming into the Lounge in a constant state of panic, frequently and _frantically_ looking through the curtains to see _who_ was waiting for him to leave, always coming up short. He even stationed a guard at the door, kept it secured under lock and key, and still… every Friday ended the same.

An _amethyst-encrusted gimlet knife,_ a _bouquet of verbenas and Easter lilies_ , a _seventy-five-year-old bottle of Mortlach_ , and a _grimy old key_ with no clue to what it opened. All but the flowers encased in his desk, in some means to beguile Ed’s toll over him.

It was a nuisance.

Mid-May bled into Mid-June, but there was a chance he was off by a month. Oswald’s semblance of time felt skewed by constant distractions.

Ed had developed a penchant for torturing Oswald and he didn’t even need to physically be there to do so.

Then the Friday came when the Lounge felt _different_ , not just because it was one in the morning and the club was aberrantly deserted, but Ed’s presence was infallible. He canted his head towards his office, wordlessly commanding Zsasz to verify his concerns.

Zsasz came back from the office with a shake of his head, and a purse to his lips, “there’s just a gift box, boss.”

Indeed, another perfectly wrapped gift, this time unmistakably from the Riddler himself, neon green question marks accenting the sheen of the black paper (Oswald wondered if they’d glow in the dark if he turned the light off), no elaborate bow, or ribbon. It seemed to be the appropriate size to fit a decapitated head, or perhaps an atomic bomb, they both seemed plausible.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Ivy asks gleefully from his office doorway, teetering on her heels, observing as Oswald seemed caught off-guard by her sudden appearance.

“No,” Oswald stated simply, disregard colluded with disdain.

“Do you know what day it is?”

Oswald shook his head, _June something, right_?

“Why do I have zero customers this evening?” He counters, more concern for that over the date, of all things. Oswald opens his drawer, wondering if he could stuff the box into it without a second thought.

“No clue, Pengy.” Ivy mused, a brief knowing smile crossing her features, unbeknownst to him, before turning on her heel and practically skipping out, past his window, pulling her phone out of her pocket.

This truly was one gift Oswald wasn’t going to open, content to have Zsasz manhandle it from the Lounge to the car, deciding if no one else wanted to be there, he shouldn’t either. His normal, polite tone with his driver is dripping with frustration as he requests a quicker than usual drive home.

After receiving instructions to leave the eyesore of a box on the kitchen island, Oswald dismisses the assassin, loosening his tie and removing his suit jacket once he hears the automatic lock wind and clicks from the front door.

Oswald scrutinized Ed’s frivolous attempt to garner his affections, tempted to chuck it into the garbage, but that only served its purpose if Ed was there to witness it. Which he wasn’t, because anytime Oswald thought maybe _that_ day would be the day Ed would show his _stupid_ face, it hadn’t been.

He thought back to the last time he’d seen Ed, nearly five years prior, which would also be exactly five years after the time they both decided to bury the hatchet. It had taken Ed a number of exorbitant mishaps to rediscover his path, which inevitably led them to be entwined with one another again. Then, after five years, when that connection proved to be too much, or too serious—Oswald wasn’t ever given privy to the details—Ed disappeared.

Oswald had already spent years assuming their _relationship_ would never be possible, but Ed had sought after him, had confessed to him, had made his devotion known, told him there were no bounds he wouldn’t leap, that they needed to be more than just acquaintances who had once tried to hurt one another.

Ed waltzing out at their peak without even an explanation wasn’t something Oswald deserved. Even through all his transgressions, he had treated Ed with all the love and respect in the world the moment Ed had given him the opportunity to do so.

It had been devastating, on a whole other level, when compared with being shot, or seeing Ed with someone else. Not only devastating because he’d given Ed _everything_ , and Ed, in turn, _left_ him, but because he didn’t know where the damn _fool_ was. Didn’t know if he was _alive_ , or incarcerated somewhere that wasn’t Blackgate or Arkham. There’d been no news about the Riddler anywhere in the world for five years. He’d assumed the _worst_ , because what else could he do? In turn, he’d been mourning the passing of their partnership. There was also the other side that _tried_ to resent Ed for leaving him, for being too cowardly to even break up with him in person.

Now five years later, Ed was showering him with spoils, trying to show Oswald he still knew how to vex him.

Oswald took to grumbling incoherently, seating into the large stool in front of the box, rolling his weight onto his arms, as his torso inclined over the island. He got close enough to the gift without physically touching it, questioning if it was an explosive, a genuine offering, or a jab. He did sort-of-maybe _want_ to open it, but that meant giving in and having Ed win this game wasn’t high on his list of priorities.

He slumped back, sullen about whatever was inside, wishing it was from _anyone_ else. Maybe this was just someone’s cruel version of a joke, maybe Ed wasn’t back. He lowered his chin into his arms. It might have been Oswald’s declining mood or the humidity in the house, but there’d been something _unsettling_ wafting through the home.

A light cough from behind, possibly from near the couch in front of the fireplace, was enough to confirm why he felt irked. Oswald's fingers moved in a flash to retrieve the pistol from its slot underneath the island, spinning around on the stool to aim it at the mansion’s intruder.

Oswald’s ire quickly dissipating at Ed’s hands in the air, the universal signal of peace. Oswald’s face nearly fell, holding on to a stitch of strength to express to Ed his presence hadn’t rattled him to his core.

The only thing that seemed to have changed with him had been the length and style of his hair, longer by a few inches, not neatly styled back, but loose, naturally curled, and wild upon his head. Oswald could already feel how he was caving at the sight of him, the longer he stared in disbelief, the more his eyes swam with the threat of tears. Ed was _alive_. He came _back_ to him. But where had he been, who had he been with, what had he been doing?

“I thought I had already disposed of all the weapons from their usual hiding spots,” Ed mentioned as Oswald discarded the weapon to the top of the island. Oswald didn’t immediately offer a reply, felt like this must’ve been a dream, didn’t even know what to say. The more minutes passed, the _angrier_ he felt.

“Things change,” Oswald finally breathed out, once he’s sure his voice wouldn’t crack.

“Ozzie—“ Ed advances, and Oswald recoils at the prospect, halting Ed’s movement.

Oswald can tell how _hurt_ Ed looks, but he’s had five years of feeling like his heart was ripped out of his chest, he was allowed to keep Ed at a distance. Oswald flipped his hand out in the air, palm up, to signify Ed had the floor to _explain_.

“I’m so sorry.” Is how Ed chooses to lead, not even surprised when Oswald’s eye twitches in response, nostrils flaring, telltale signs that Ed probably wasn’t off to a great start. “I—do you remember where I’d gone the last time you saw me?”

“You said you were going to set a trap for the Bat, to find out his identity. We’d spent six months perfecting it, and then you went after him,” Oswald added bitterly, “ _by yourself_.”

“In hindsight, that wasn’t the best decision I’ve ever made.” Ed shuffles from side-to-side, seemingly trying to restrain himself from reaching out to Oswald before he’s ready to accept him.

“Hm, you don’t say.”

 _Sarcasm isn’t a nice look on you_ , Ed wants to tease. “Our plan worked out perfectly, or so I thought. I didn’t take into account that Batman had a partner, until after I’d taken off his mask, and was knocked out from behind.”

“You know who he is?” That piques Oswald’s interest, nearly jumping out of the stool. The Bat was always a thorn in his side, even if sometimes the vigilante took advantage of the wealth of knowledge the Penguin could provide him.

“Yes, Ozzie,” Ed confirms, with a delighted smirk, content to let Oswald sit on that while he finished his story. “He and his cohort abducted me. By the time I woke up I was somewhere in Tibet.” Ed’s whole body shook from the remembrance of how _cold_  he’d been. “It helped answer the riddle of who’d been puppeteering the Court of Owls back in the day, and the group that was single-handedly responsible for bringing Batman into his self-righteous existence—the League Of Shadows. We can revisit this subject later. This wasn’t the conversation I wanted to have after coming home for the first time in five years.”

Questions about _what_ the League had done to Ed, anger curdling in his chest for new reasons, imagining those thugs hurting what wasn’t theirs. He wondered what information Ed had gathered, what he had endured. Who Batman was, constantly stung the end of his tongue, wanting that answer, even more, knowing that Ed had it, and he didn’t.

“Almost to the day,” Oswald stated somberly.

“Exactly to the day.”

“No, you left on my birthday.”

“Os, it _is_ your birthday.”

“No, that’s not—“ Oswald’s voice fades, brows furrowing as he considers it. It had been too hot outside to still be June, and it would explain Ivy’s earlier comment, but how had he been that far off?

Ed takes advantage of Oswald’s momentary bewilderment, closing the distance between them as quickly as his feet will allow. He took to trapping Oswald against the island, hands placed on either side of him, grip firm on the granite.

Ed loomed over him, a pleased grin on his face, as Oswald focused on their proximity, face contorting into anger. He soaked it in, before leaning forward, subtly pressing his way between Oswald’s legs. One hand coming up to pull the box behind Oswald, forcing them closer together, Oswald’s forehead meeting Ed’s chest. Oswald’s body instantly betraying him by the hitch of his breath, still coming to recognize the warmth of Ed against him not being just his imagination.

Ed pops the top off the box, rummaging through what sounds like tissue paper before finding the item, an ‘ _aha_!’ leaving his lips. Their contact is severed as Ed pulls back, placing the acquired item ceremoniously on top of Oswald’s dishevelled locks. He takes a step back, admiring the beauty of the new accessory.

 _Whatever_ it was felt heavy on Oswald’s head, him meeting Ed’s fond stare, feeling self-conscious as he hurriedly reached up to remove it. He carefully placed it into his lap, a tidal wave of emotions cascading over him. He was thankful to be looking down, but by the way, he was vibrating in his seat, anyone could tell he was on the verge of tears or a notorious tirade.

“This—this is—“ Oswald starts, no longer able to prevent his words from cracking. “How did you—why would you—when did you—I?”

Ed scratched the back of his neck, observing as Oswald wouldn’t dare look up, fingers shakily working their way around the item. “I had some time to spare while stopped over in London.”

“So,” Oswald drawls, scolding, welled up green hues finally meeting Ed’s, in an attempt to drive home how _disappointed_ he was, “you thought enacting a heist on the vault housing the _British Crown Jewels_ would be the best way to spend your newly appointed freedom, risking another incarceration?”

“You—you underestimate my capacity to elude foreign officers.”

“No, it was just foolish of me to think it might’ve been more important for you to come home to me,” Oswald snaps back, “rather than gallivanting around the United Kingdom after stealing one of their oldest crowns... how did you even make it through the airport?”

“I had help,” Ed’s hand theatrically slid through the air, “private jet.”

Oswald shook his head in disbelief, eyes sliding shut, this was all too elaborate. When he reopened them, Ed was still there, hands now behind his back.

Oswald looked down at the crown. It was indeed the one he had read about in World Wide News, an article from nearly two months ago. Made during the 17th century, of gold, featuring four fleurs-de-lis, with four crosses pattée circling it, four depressed arches meeting at the centre. Above the arches is a jewelled monde, the only item differing it from looking exactly like St. Edward’s Crown being the lack of a cross on top.

The frame itself is embellished with 567 precious stones, Oswald glossing over the rose-cut aquamarines, amethysts, garnets, rubies, sapphires, and topazes with utter astonishment. Its base wrapped in soft freckled white fleece, sunk-in purple velvet rimmed the inner sides of the arches.

“Do you—do you _like_ it, at least?” Ed finally asks, needing the affirmation, gaining an understanding he probably should’ve been more conscientious of his— _their_ circumstances, before acting on impulse and stealing a priceless artifact. Ed received no reply, noticing Oswald was still reverberating on the stool. He started to notice the velvet fabric of the crown was being soaked with tears.

“Oh, oh no, _Ozzie_.” Ed took a step back in, doing the only thing he knew could instantly cure all of Oswald’s worries, hooking a finger under Oswald’s chin, reeling him in for the first kiss either had felt in _years_ , chaste and salty-sweet, yet so heavily burdened with regret and longing. Ed pulled back reluctantly, pleased that Oswald chased after him. He chuckled lightly as Oswald’s grip seemed to go lax on the crown, Ed reflexively snagging it before it could fall, and planting it on the countertop. “I’m here now, I swear I’m not going anywhere.”

“I don’t want to agonize over this,” Oswald muttered, as Ed’s thumbs brushed over his cheeks to wipe away the lines of tears. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“It was a fluke, Oswald. It was never my intention to leave you.” Ed pulled at Oswald’s hands, interlacing their fingers, raising them up to the space between them. “I’ve learned there’s not enough time in the world to be so phlegmatic.”

“Don’t do things on your own,” Oswald demanded, earning an urgent nod from the other male, “tell me if you’re going to do something that is going to impact us,” another nod, “I missed you, I thought you were _dead_ ,” he croaked, the absolute torment clear as a new set of tears fell.

Ed didn’t realize it could be possible to feel worse, unravelling their fingers, stepping into the space between them, pulling Oswald flush against his chest, one hand’s fingers soothingly running through Oswald’s hair, the other moving in circles across his back. “I never was, am always to be—” Ed cuts himself off at the sound of protest Oswald makes from beneath him, no doubt ‘ _I don’t want your damn riddles right now, Ed’_ , “ _tomorrow_ , we have tomorrow and every day after that, and I know I can’t change everything that happened up to this point, but I’ll do whatever I can to give you everything you deserve going forward.”

Oswald lets Ed continue his ministrations, elated for the first time since his disappearance. His breathing evens out, eventually wrapping his arms tight around Ed’s waist, before a realization dawns on him, a _gap_ in Ed’s timeline. He palmed at Ed’s chest, pushing him back.

“You’ve been back for two months, why did you wait this long to come home?” Oswald probed, feeling his blood pressure rising again.

“I _did_ ,” Ed tilted his head, a nervous glint in his eye. “Well, I went to the Lounge first, and I—well, after being told I wasn’t allowed entry, I did the only thing I could and snuck into your vents. I,” Ed’s voice deepens, “I saw you hugging… a dingbat in your office, and I—just, couldn’t let—I didn’t want to intrude. I understood if you had moved on.”

Oswald straightens, realizing Ivy hadn’t been the only one present to misunderstand. “Ed, there was nothing going on, you’ve _always_ been—“

“Os, it’s fine, I know.” Ed chuckled, a hand coming back to rest on the back of his neck. “Either way, I left thinking I’d need to win you back, and the only obvious conclusion was to bombard you with gifts to make up for the years of birthdays I missed, and then some.”

“You were driving me insane.”

“That was kind of the point.” Ed reminisces about having a tailor-made suit ensemble created for the large plush owl, choosing to hold that story for another day. The story of why the key opened Oswald and Gertrud's old apartment would also have to wait. “When you didn’t show after the crystal I left, I was mildly discouraged. Ivy showed up a couple of evenings after, found me squatting at what used to be Cherry’s, and gave me an incentive to continue. I always paid someone to drop them off, sometimes two. I had to start getting creative when you put a guard up. The vents are pretty handy, also some of your employees are easily distracted by the female persuasion.”

Oswald takes to inadvertently unbuttoning and re-buttoning Ed’s undershirt, desperate to feel him under his skin, wanting to ensure Ed fully understood how he _truly_ would never be allowed to leave again. “How did you get no one to show up at the Lounge tonight?”

“Ivy helped with that one, pulled Mr Penn in on it, from what I recall. The man’s got a bleeding heart.”

Oswald reaches for one of Ed’s wrists suddenly, pulling at it, and spanning his palm with his, before pressing Ed’s palm over the top of the left side of his chest. Ed’s eyes widen, then soften, feeling the erratic pulse against his hand.

“I don’t know how many times I’m going to end up saying this, but this can’t _ever_ happen again.”

“It won’t, I give you my word,” Ed reassures, reaching for the crown with his available hand, placing it upon Oswald’s head, and then proceeding to take a dramatic bow. “A promise to Gotham’s King.”

Oswald can’t prevent the roll of his eyes, releasing a chuckle, which greatly relieves the room of any tension. Ed’s ecstatic for the change of pace, reaching to cup Oswald’s cheeks, placing delicately slow kisses against his lips. Oswald grows impatient, a hand coming to the nape of Ed’s neck, deepening them. Ed pulls back as Oswald’s tongue brushes his, drowsy in their haze, bemused by the way the crown is now tilted on the top of Oswald’s head.

“Happy birthday, Oswald.” Ed throatily musters out, earning a hum of acknowledgement as Oswald moves to recapture his lips.


End file.
